A Helping Hand (closed)

[littlebluebird]

Alana Kaleo stares herself down in the mirror while her hands span and brace the edge of the bathroom counter. Her brow furrows while her breath comes out in short pants. This isn’t a big deal, she rationalizes to herself. Dark hair, tan skin, and brown eyes reflect back at her as she psychs herself up again.

“Alright, Lana. You’ve got this.”

This is the mantra that had gotten her through sports, public speaking, and even job interviews. None of which are the reason behind why she's steeling herself right now.

After a moment of rolling her neck and shoulders, she lets out a steadying breath and pushes off the counter with newly determined vigor.

“Alright. Here we go. C’mon. . . c’mon, c’mon, c’mon. . . ” she chants to herself, hopping in place over the towel.

Lana could feel them. Hell, she could even hear them as they knocked into each other with each jump. The set of small, glass, Kegel eggs she had purchased were currently lodged very deep inside her.

~*~

Earlier that day.

“They won’t get. . . um, stuck up there?” she asked.

“Oh, no honey. It’s impossible,” the store owner replied reassuringly. The older woman even showed her the ease of sanitizing them, and gently guided Lana through insertion and placement.

She left the adult novelty boutique with a smile on her face and a pair of beautiful, teal-tinted eggs nestled sweetly inside her pussy. At first she barely felt them; even began to question their worth and efficacy. But when she walked towards her car and engaged her pelvic floor, she had to stop midstep as sensation zipped through her core. “Oh. . .”

The drive to midtown had her squirming in her seat. Every bump, crack and pothole in the road jarred her body and in turn shifted the eggs inside her. Her thong was drenched, but getting her errands done while on an aroused high was exciting, to say the least. The thrill of doing something so openly risqué, with everyone around her none the wiser, made her that much more wet. She shared flirty smiles with each person that met her eyes, holding that provocative secret behind full lips. If you only knew, she’d mentally telegraph while she passed; sashaying her hips just a little more for those that did a double take.

By the time Lana got home, she couldn’t get to her room fast enough. After three hours of essentially edging herself, she threw her groceries in a haphazard pile on the floor and strode purposefully towards her bed. Her roommate wasn’t due to return for another hour, so she didn’t even bother with closing the door. In record time she was lying on her mattress, thong discarded, and legs spread with a small vibrator on her clit. Within seconds, she was cumming; screaming obscenities into the empty apartment as the vibe mercilessly took her over the edge and through an orgasm that wracked her core. The walls of her sex rhythmically pulsed and drew the eggs even deeper.

Which brought her to her current predicament.

~*~

“It’s impossible,” she repeats to herself, and continues to hop and pray for gravity to do its thing.

Sighing in frustration, Lana poises one of her feet on the counter and balances on her other leg. Maybe if I change the angle. She reaches under the hem of her sundress and draws her hand between her legs.

Just as she was about to delve her fingers in, sudden movement catches her eye and she quickly kicks the door shut before it can open all the way. Her temper flares before she has a chance to tamp it down, “How many times do I have to tell you to fucking knock?!”

 

[Obuzeti]

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, close the door then or hang a sock on it or something," Marcus says, leaning away from the door as it slams shut in front of him. "Thing was cracked, thought that meant you had just left the light on in there. Fuck. How'd you not hear me coming anyways?"

The loud click of his bootheels echo through the bathroom door as he strides around the corner instead, to the kitchen on the other side of the wall and the sink there. The faucet turns on and soap squeaks in between meaty fingers as he washes off the dirt and grime of another day fucking around with gears and bobbits and everything else under the sun that can break and waste everybody's time. There's the faint sound of a splash, too, and then an audible shudder as the sizable engineer probably splashes his own face to get the crud out of his eyes.

A glance in the mirror proves his suspicion right: there's powdered something in his hair from where a ceiling had partially crumbled on top of his head, when he'd had to get into a crawlspace. He'd brushed as much of it out as possible, but he still looked like he'd washed a half inch of shitty hair dye out and then forgot to replace it. It was a wonderful complement to blocky features that looked like he'd been punched in the face constantly as a child - which was not an unreasonable assessment. His nose was crooked and he needed a shave, because the normally-trimmed beard was starting to look scraggly. That said, his rescue, as ever, was a sharp jawline, a blue-eyed stare that could kick a grown steer's ass, and curly, thick hair that didn't give a flying fuck about shampoo.

He considers annoying her some more, but reconsiders it on the basis that harassing Alana on the can usually pisses her off enough to start hiding his stuff, and he already has a hard enough fucking time finding anything, like his keys or matching socks. Instead, he takes a long pair of steps across the mini-kitchen area - almost trips over some groceries, set there and left like fucking culinary land mines - and seats himself on a chair with an audible whumph as it takes on two-hundred-plus-pounds of Big Guy, and then starts trying to peel off his boots. He grimaces as he wiggles one off, the short burst of ache as his feet come free telling him he's got about half an hour before the adrenaline wears off and he's done doing shit for the day.

There's nothing on the stove yet, and no dishes in the drain, so Alana probably hasn't started eating yet either. Marcus considers for a moment and then selects a pasta pot and starts filling it with water. Spaghetti and some salad is simple and quick enough. "Hey, I'm making pasta!" he calls through the wall, as he opens a cabinet and peers through, grabbing a box of rigatoni. "You want some?"

He glances back at the groceries on the floor. His nose wrinkles. "Also, pick up your fucking groceries. You get more of that kale chip garbage? Fuck's wrong with you?"

No idea why she eats that shit. For real.

 

[littlebluebird]

Alana didn’t hear the heavyweight that was her roommate, Marcus, because she was too preoccupied with the archaeological dig that she was going to have to undergo just to retrieve the damn glass eggs that were buried deep inside of her.

A wave of guilt rises then quickly dissipates. She knew she came off hot slamming the door in his face, but it wasn’t the first time he’d accidentally walked in on her. Didn’t exactly help that they only had the one bathroom to share. He’ll live anyhow, she reasons. Marcus has a thick skin, and she could hear that he was already tromping towards the kitchen to use the sink there.

Flexing her hip, her foot finds purchase on the counter yet again. This time she delves her middle and ring fingers inside with absolute ease - the evidence of her recent orgasm coats her slender digits. Her left palm rests flat against the door for balance and she closes her eyes; she tries to focus on bearing down while her fingers gently probe inside her depths.

There!

She feels the unmistakable, smooth surface of one of the eggs at the edge of her fingertips and begins coaxing it with a ‘come hither’ motion, trying to shift it closer to her entrance. Alana takes a breath as she prepares to bear down, only to have her concentration broken by Marcus’ baritone voice.

The startle in focus causes her muscles clench instead, drawing the egg millimeters outside of her fingers’ reach. She groans out loud, not bothering to hide her frustration.

“- the fucking worst sometimes, Marcus,” she mutters under her breath before she calls out her reply, “Yeah, fine - whatever!”

Alana hops in place again and even air squats to try and get the teardrop weights to drop further, without success.

She starts to pace then, breaking down her options before mild panic has a chance to settle. Absolute worst case scenario, she could go to the ER - retrieving foreign objects from bodily orifices is like Emergency Care 101. Only downside was that she’d be served with a hefty bill after the whole ordeal was said and done.

Or. . .
She could ask Marcus.

Her roommate has larger hands and longer fingers than her own. He might actually be able to reach behind each egg and pull them out. Fuck. How beyond awkward though.

A sizable dent in her purse vs. Level 10 cringe and embarrassment for the foreseeable future. Her tight bank account makes her lean on the latter, and besides, Marcus isn’t the type to hold something serious over her head. This would, however, provide him with an unlimited arsenal in the form of quips, jabs, and gibes that she would never hear the end of.

Alana washes her hands and takes in her reflection once more. Her light application of makeup still held from earlier, and if anything, she still has remnants of that ‘self-satisfied’ glow against her skin.

She seizes the moment to adjust the thin straps of her periwinkle sundress; the color almost pops against her dark skin with its V-neckline showing just enough cleavage, and a cut that hugs her full curves in all the right places.

Threading her fingers through her hair in a rough combing action, she swings her thick, layered mane over her shoulder then smooths the mid-thigh hem of her dress.

Her plan was set: She’s going to be upfront with Marcus, tell him what happened, and if he couldn’t or didn’t want to help her, she’d go to the ER and figure out the money later. Simple, right?

After forever and a day, Alana finally steps out of the bathroom and rounds the corner to the kitchen to see Marcus making dinner. Her eyes fasten on the work his hands are doing, and she grimaces. Maybe she should just go the ER. Everything about him was just, big - including his hands, which were bear paws hardened by physical labor. Her inner muscles clench in both appreciation and anticipation, causing her breath to hitch, and for once in her life she wanted to wrangle her libido.

She drops down to pick up the groceries, only to feel the eggs clink against each other. “Jesus,” she quietly moans, before deciding to pick up all of the bags in a single carry. She wasn’t going to do that more than once.

Alana takes a breath and sets the bags on the counter, emptying their contents and organizing each item accordingly. “I like them, and they’re healthy for you,” she quips back. “And I don’t want to hear your shit, I bought your damn cookies,” she says, as she sets the package none too gently on the counter. Truth is, she likes the cookies too and steals one (or a few) for herself whenever Marcus isn’t around, and she’s in need of a sugar-fix.

Timing is everything. She decides that she’ll ask him after dinner. Both of them functioned better when hunger pangs weren’t part of the picture.

She glances back at Marcus, her eyes narrowing, “Why do you have shit in your hair?”

 

[Obuzeti]

The whispered exclamation catches Marcus's ears, and his head jerks around sharp, eyes narrowed. His mouth thins, and a long huff of air exits him as he turns around and goes back to filling the pasta pot with water, but the exhalation is as sure a signal as a train whistle; he knows something's up, and is just running down the list of priorities until he gets to it. Food comes first. They're both fucking hungry.

"Live happier, die sooner," Marcus opines, blunt and unforgiving, as he sets the pot on the oven and sets it to boil. "Enjoy the retirement home when you're ninety, I guess. If they even have those still by the time we're ninety and aren't just tipping train cars of the elderly into the incinerators by then."

He shrugs, unbothered, and nudges open the fridge with a finger so he can steal the salad box, and then settles to slicing lettuce, cucumber, and tomato into a chopped blend in two bowls. You can buy bagged salad, but that comes with like, onions and parsley and other weird shit he doesn't like. He'll just buy what he wants and make it himself, fuck it. "Was up in a crawlspace replacing wiring for a building that's about a century old. Brushed out what I could but it clings - was gonna dunk my head in the shower for a minute to get it out. Could grow on me though, I look anime as shit. Can't wait for my tournament arc."

One salad bowl is finished and set over by Alana. "You good?"

 

[littlebluebird]

Alana is rolling her eyes when she pulls two glasses from the cabinet and fills them with ice. She pours their drinks and sets one by Marcus. “To retirement homes and train cars,” she toasts irreverently, clinking his glass with her own.

She re-opens the fridge, grabs a few more things for her salad, then sets them on a small cutting board. Early on she’d gripe about the extra work, insisting on the convenience of pre-bagged and that Marcus just pull out the shit he didn’t want. Needless to say, it was a short-lived argument.

Her brow arches as the image of Marcus shuffling in the cramped confines of a crawlspace takes root in her mind’s eye. “Okay, Guts. Just make sure you don’t get any of that work debris in our food, yeah? I prefer my pasta without asbestos.”

She takes her salad bowl with a quick “thanks” and tips the cutting board over it, adding sliced onions and mushrooms, and chopped parsley. A splash of vinaigrette finishes the bowl. “Yeah. Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” she stammers, the tone of her voice slightly higher from just a moment ago. She grabs a couple sets of silverware, and cradles the bowl in the crook of her elbow. “Why wouldn’t I be?” she adds with a defensive shrug.

Alana grabs their drinks and turns away from her roommate, silently chiding herself. She might as well have the words NOT FUCKING FINE scrawled across her forehead.

Food first, then she’ll drop the bomb. Maybe even start looking at other apartments. She sets everything on the table with her nerves dancing on edge. When she takes her seat on one of the recliners, the eggs shift and another unbidden moan slips past her lips before she can curb it. Alana scrambles for the remote control and turns on the television, tapping the volume button on high; desperate for a distraction.

 

[Obuzeti]

"Point, I'll go jump in the shower first," Marcus allows, with the grumpiness of a referee kicking his favorite player out of the game. He's still eyeballing her, but his general grunginess seems to be a more immediate point that he can address, so he just knocks his knuckles against her shoulder lightly and then treads off towards the bathroom. He snags a pair of flannel pants and some graphic T-shirt on the way, and then the door shuts behind him for his ablutions.

Perhaps five minutes later he's back out of the shower - it never takes him long. A towel's slung over Marcus's shoulders as he irritably rubs it through messy, curled hair; he collects his salad from the kitchen, adds some Italian dressing, and plops in the other living room recliner, already giving her the gimlet eye again. He probably hadn't heard her moan as he was shuffling off to the bathroom, but his expression defaults to Resting Bitchface so hard it tends to be difficult to figure out what he's thinking.

The salad fork clinks on the bowl. He eats a bite of salad, swallows. Continues idly staring off into space at that exact forty-five degree angle off of Alana's face, paying attention without specifically staring at her. It's obnoxious how exact his mannerisms are, in fact.

 

[littlebluebird]

The television drones in the background as Alana surfs the channels in a vain attempt to avoid Marcus’ patient glower. With only half of her salad eaten, she’s awkwardly changed positions in her seat at least four times: legs crossed, one leg fanned open, that same leg tucked under, then both tucked under; each adjustment causing the eggs to shift and remind her of her current predicament. As if she could forget.

She’s always appreciated Marcus’ penchant for not being one to press and to give her space to navigate things - which he was technically still doing - but the weight of his quiet presence and indirect stare compel her more than any verbal query could.

“Alright, fine,” she begrudgingly sighs, and chooses a channel with some random action B-movie.

Alana takes a swig of her water, wishes it was something stronger, then looks at her roommate, “I have a favor to ask of you. A pretty big one at that. So big, in fact, that I should probably to go to the ER instead of ask, but lucky for you, I’m kind of broke - so! If you help me with this, I’ll, I dunno, buy pizzas for the next year, or something.”

She continues with a more sincere note, “And if you don’t feel comfortable helping, that’s ok too. I’ll make the hospital trip and figure it out.” She smiles with a shrug, needing to add a bit of humor at the end of such solemnity “Maybe with some cute doctor.”

“Anyways,” she breaks eye contact then, and takes a breath knowing she’s been babbling and still hasn’t gotten around to the reveal. It’s when she clears her throat that her breath hitches, and her fingertips press into the arm of her recliner.

“Ever hear of Kegel eggs?”

 

[Obuzeti]

Marcus listens, passive and unmoving, until the letters ER pass Alana's lips, and then he turns and stares her down in disbelief, thick brows beetled and bunkered down in a harsh line. Still, he doesn't interrupt - just lets her finish her statement.

When his brows only deepen in confusion at her last statement, it's clear the situation can only get more awkward.

"First, fuck off with this 'go to the hospital' shit. If it's that serious I got you. Get off your martyr throne," he says, impatient and annoyed at the exposition like this is a noir film setup, some letter mailed after the pretty dame's death at the mob's dirty hands.

"Second, you look like you're trying not to fart. Unclench some before you pull a glute."

"Thirdly, no. Kegel exercises are like - pelvic exercises, or something? I dunno. It's some super feminine shit and that's all I know. Are they like those giant pilates balls or some shit?"

He's trying to be reassuring but Marcus doesn't really do tact as most humans recognize it; his well of social patience is perpetually bone-dry. He might not bring up a topic, but once it's aired, it gets sorted and handled.

 

[littlebluebird]

Only Marcus has the ability to get her from a state of nervous fidgeting to exasperation in .5 seconds. On the plus side, he did agree to help her.

Alana sighs, “I’m not trying to hold in a fucking-“ She groans and looks up at the ceiling with her eyes closed and mutters, “-such a dick, I can’t believe I’m really doing this.”

She exhales a harsh breath, and keeps her gaze on the ground; her brows raised in unenthused reluctance as she steps into the waters of all-things-awkward. Alana nods, “Kegel exercises focus on the pelvic floor muscles. If you you engage and tone them regularly, orgasm quality can change; they can feel bigger, more pronounced and intense.”

The flush of heat is creeping up her neck and across her cheeks, “So if you’re a curious gal like myself, you find yourself a pair of glass Kegel eggs at that lovely adult boutique downtown, place them inside your bajingo, go about your day running errands and shopping - all while hoping you don’t O in the middle of the bakery aisle, or heaven forbid, lose an egg and have it drop from between your legs - then come back home to bang one out with your vibrator to then find out they’ve lodged farther than your fingers can reach.”

She licks her lips, “In case I’ve lost you, yes, you heard me right. I have a pair of glass eggs,” she encircles her thumb and forefinger, “about yea big, stuck up my cooch, and I need you to play gyno doctor and help pull them out.”

 

[Obuzeti]

Marcus's eyebrows start to rise when Alana explains Kegel exercises. They keep going up, the effect dramatic on his normally-pinched, scowling face, as she explains the situation, and then the worst possible thing happens: when she says bajingo, he starts to laugh. Not audibly, but the low, body-shaking tremor of someone desperately trying to repress their amusement. It sounds like a choked cough deep in his throat. His eyes crinkle, and he turns to stare off at the far wall of the room, lips pursed.

"You know, I realize some kid's toys come with instructions that tell you that they're small enough to be swallowed and pose a choking danger. Y'know, like marbles," he says, as his head tilts up to stare at the ceiling instead. "I just didn't realize there exists an equal and opposite possibility for unfortunate insertion, rather than ingestion."

Marcus shakes his head and stands up. His chest is still bouncing lightly, and his eyes dance as he gestures at Alanna uselessly. "Okay, I'll help. Where you wanna do this? I need lubrication or -"

Marcus pauses and closes his eyes.. He's actively biting his lip and his eyes are closed tight as red starts creeping up his neck and over his face.

"Well, if you were in danger of O on the bakery aisle, I suppose once I got here you were just fine," he says, voice quaking with laughter, and then just starts rubbing one hand over his mouth while the other reaches out blindly and pats Alana on the shoulder.

 

[littlebluebird]

Alana half-heartedly swats at Marcus’ placating hand and turns her head away from him. “It’s not funny,” she pouts, even though the corners of her mouth are fighting to laugh along with her roommate.

Her voice goes high in mock solemnity of authority, “This is a serious situation, and as such, should be addressed in the bathroom, don’t you think?” Quite frankly, she’s not quite sure what would happen if they handled this in one of their bedrooms.

As if on cue, her libido answers the introspective question; her inner muscles tightening around the eggs. She was still wet from earlier, and the anticipation of what was going to happen next did absolutely nothing hamper that.

She clears her throat and shifts in her seat,“Before I forget, thank you.” Her tone is quiet and sincere, and she allows a beat or so to pass before she catches his wrist - her slender fingers barely encircle it. “If you share this with anyone, you’ll be worrying about more than just your keys and socks.” Her voice carries an edge that’s sharpened further by a smirk that promises absolute discord.

Instead of waiting for a response, she heads to the bathroom and bends at the waist, resting her forearms on the counter. She calls out to her roommate, “Are we doing this, or is my ‘super feminine shit’ making you question your choices in life?”

 

[Obuzeti]

"I mean, sure, wherever you hide your pornography tools works," Marcus says with a nod. "I know what's up. I wash that goddamn showerhead weekly. You can't fool me."

He's joking, but he's stuffed his hands into his pockets, and his tongue runs over his lips once as his eyes flick aside. He huffs a deep exhale and pushes all that aside, though, rolling and squaring his shoulders like he's about to move fucking heavy furniture instead of finger a girl. The muscles in his wrist, thick and corded, flex under her grip, and he responds to her affirmation with only a touch on her shoulder; never verbal in his sentiment.

She leans over on the counter and for a moment Marcus really has to stop and swallow; like, shit, this is awkward. And also, sexy, but only if he lets it. So instead he just shrugs and palms one of her thighs, running it straight up until he runs into her panties. "So what, I just strip you down and - "

He doesn't run into her panties. The top of his wrist runs right up into bare, slick skin and trimmed hair; he freezes with a sharp inhale. "Oh. Okay, that's, ah, out of the way. Jesus."

 

[littlebluebird]

For all of her bravado from earlier, Alana still flinches when she feels Marcus’ warm and callused palm run along the inside of her thigh. The sensation of his touch drives home the reality of what’s going to happen, and her libido wholeheartedly approves.

When his wrist brushes against the slick lips of her sex, she gasps; a soft and almost inaudible sound. She feels her nipples bead against the fabric of her dress and a rush of heat rolls off her body. It takes every ounce of self-control not to push back and grind herself against him. Instead, she goes on tip-toe, arching her back, and breaks contact with his wrist; just enough to take a breath.

It’s not that she’s uninterested in doing the deed with Marcus, on the contrary. His physicality and dry humor alone check boxes for her. But any time she’s made a pass, he simply dismissed it as a joke and moved on. She figures she isn’t his type, which is okay in her book because he’s become a steady friend and solid roommate, and that’s much harder to find than dick to bang.

Now she can’t help but wonder what he’s like in the sack.

Alana steals a glance at their reflection in the mirror; her, bent over with tits nearly spilling over the neckline of her dress; him, looming behind, with his massive frame and tense, unreadable expression.

She swears the temperature in the room has gone up at least 5 degrees.

Alana turns her head over her shoulder, not quite looking at her roommate, “You know what you’re doing back there?”